


The True Colour of Love.

by Lasvegolas



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Crack, Happy Valentine's Day 2015, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mystrade fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3344741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasvegolas/pseuds/Lasvegolas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quick bit of Johnlock nonsense for Valentine's Day. Enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The True Colour of Love.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Sherlock and am not making any money. I do accept virtual hugs though ;).

Sherlock Holmes wasn't a romantically inclined person. John Watson knew that and really he accepted it uncomplainingly, after all everybody is different and slightly guarded (discounting moments of extreme excitement related to The Work), and rather unaffectionate was just how Sherlock was. Really, John didn't mind. Not normally. Not nine times out of ten. Not six days out of seven. Not 364 days of the year. So perhaps if not for circumstances he wouldn't have minded on this particular day either, special as it was meant to be, indeed a case involving the conducting of several risky experiments, grave robbing (if stealing a wig counted), and a thrilling four hour chase around London may have been excitement enough and John would never have cared, except for the unexpected actions of those around them.

The actions were rather amazing and slightly disturbing. It was Mycroft, arriving in his black car complete with tinted windows, to stroll on to the crime scene. He went directly to Detective Lestrade, kissed him, and presented him with a massive bunch of bright red roses. Greg's slightly flustered, blustering response, amid to cheers and catcalls from the remaining Yarders clearing the scene, did nothing to disguise his utter delight and Mycroft strolled away swirling his umbrella, looking exactly like, if not the cat that swallowed the cream, definitely one who had been promised some.  
It was then John remembered that it was 11: 59pm on Valentine's Day and far from a public display of affection, Sherlock hadn't even remarked on the date. It was quite possible he had forgotten entirely, even more so that he had deleted it.  
Watching on with Sherlock rolling his eyes and muttering, "Oh for Gods sake," beside him. John suddenly realised he was only pretending to smile. As Lestrade went past, a silly grin lighting up his face, he held the blooms towards the occupants of Baker Street for a sniff.  
"Oh spare me, merely having to witness my brother making an utter arse of himself publicly is trial enough. I don't need the stench of mother's special roses giving me a migraine as well. He must have emptied her entire glass house,” snapped Sherlock, refusing with an elegant flapping of his long fingered hand.  
John gave a polite sniff, "Very nice," he muttered weakly.  
"Red roses! My favourite. My' never forgets Valentine's day," beamed Lestrade, walking on.  
"Trite. Utterly predictable, flowers the colour of passion," sneered Sherlock.  
"They're the colour of love, Sherlock!" Called back Lestrade gaily.  
"Ridiculous. The colour of love? Pah. As if that's the colour of love anyway,” grumbled Sherlock, putting on his gloves.  
"As if you'd know anything about it anyway,” said John shortly, and Sherlock looked at him sharply.

The cab ride home was silent with John staring out the window and Sherlock staring at John. It was only as the cab arrived at Baker Street that Sherlock broke the silence.  
"I can't believe it, you're actually upset because I didn't make a fuss on one of the most commercially driven holidays on the calendar."  
"I am not upset,” said John tightly as he paid the driver.  
"Don't bother lying. What set you off? My idiot brother and his display of devotion to Gavin, I suppose. Well I wouldn't be too envious of that he was only plotting to keep him sweet. I am disappointed in you John.”  
"And I am disappointed in you!" Shouted John, his temper suddenly getting the better of him, “Just because you didn't care enough to remember doesn't give you the right to belittle those that did! And for your information I didn't expect some roses but an 'I love you' would have been nice! Say whatever you like about Mycroft at least he cared enough to make an effort!" With those parting words he jumped out and slammed the door, storming away into Baker Street, leaving an open mouthed Sherlock sitting in the cab.  
John spent the remainder of the night in his room, listening for the door but Sherlock never came in, until finally just as the sun was peeking through the curtains, John fell asleep.  
He awoke at midday to an empty flat and a mood of lingering disappointment. With a sigh he told himself he was being ridiculous and he better get over himself. It didn't really help, and grumpily he headed down to cook a late breakfast.

The flowers were placed down before him silently as he sat before toast and tea at the cluttered table. John picked up the ragged bunch of roses and examined them, bemusedly turning them about in his hands. Glancing across to Sherlock he tried to get a idea of just what sort of reaction he was expected to display. But Sherlock sat, fingers steepled, apparently deep in his mind palace. With a sigh, John put the flowers down and continued on with his breakfast. 

It wasn't until John was washing up, feeling eyes burning into his back, that Sherlock spoke.  
"May I assume I am now forgive? Adding my apologies for the delay naturally."  
"Forgiven? Why would I be in the mood to forgive you?" Snapped John, crossly.  
"Oh for- I brought you the flowers John! That's what you wanted wasn't it? A romantic gesture?”  
John turned to look at Sherlock incredulously.  
"Excuse me? Romantic gesture? Are you insane? With a soapy hand, he pointed over towards the table, "Sherlock, you just gave me a bunch of dead roses! What the Hell are they supposed to signify?"  
But Sherlock looked at John if he was the one acting funny.  
"Our love naturally," He returned flatly.  
John looked at him incredulously, and with a strange noise turned away, back to the sink.  
"Well, I guess that shows what you really think of our relationship doesn't it?" he chocked out, unable to believe that even Sherlock could be this deliberately mean.  
"Yes. They are perfect. Rather hard to find them actually. Are you going to display them on the mantle? I believe that's a typical habit with love tokens.”  
That was it! John turned around and grabbed the flowers, brandishing them at his now extremely ex-lover-flatmate-friend,-colleague, (whatever else you cared to call them) because John was so out of here.  
"They’re dead Sherlock! You gave me dead flowers to symbolise our love! What the fuck am I meant to make of that?"  
Sherlock blinked and frowned, "Well naturally they are dead John, with the limited time I had, they had to be. But they are correct for us,” he sounded genuinely puzzled.  
John gave him a sad look, "Great Sherlock. Dead flowers to symbolise our love. Thanks,” He said flatly.  
"Why do you keep harping on about that! Dead, yes they are dead, but I already explained I didn't have time to find the correct shade alive,” said Sherlock crossly and John gasped at him.  
"What...are you saying that...it's the colour of them that's important? Not the fact they are dead? He prompted.  
"Of course! 'The colour of love' John, remember? Only naturally, I, unlike my brother, got it right!" Sherlock looked incredibly pleased with himself, then, “Traditionally, you should be more happy with me, John."  
John looked down at the wilted, browning roses with their loose petals and leaves curling up with incomprehension.  
"So...Brown? That's the colour of love and I should be happy with you?" He echoed dumbly and Sherlock looked at him impatiently.  
"No, not brown, they’re not brown. They are the colour of our love John. Can't you see that?" He said, as if slightly hurt.  
John didn't know what to say, was Sherlock colour blind perhaps? Unsure of what else to do he whispered, "What colour are they, Sherlock?" And he looked steadily at his tall, raven curled partner.  
"They are warm beige, John."  
"And warm beige is the colour of our love?"  
"Of course."  
"Why?”  
"Because it's the colour of tea you make me, it's the colour of that awful sweater you wear constantly, the colour your skin has changed to as the military sun-tan fades away, the colour of the dumplings you always order for me at the Chinese place, the colour of buttered toast you force me to eat during a case, the colour of our sheets, the colour of your hair at night when we make love, the colour of everything about you because you're the person I love so -” Sherlock's rapid recital cut off abruptly as he found both the warm beige roses, and John crushed against his chest.  
"Oh God you are amazing. Sherlock. I love you too," he heard, then John's lips met his and the world, even for the world's only Consulting Detective, went swirling away. 

Much later as they lay in bed, John stroking Sherlock's silky head as he lay curled up beside him, remarked teasingly, "You know Mycroft was also right with his choice Sherlock.”  
"How? How could he be? Red is the most common colour to symbolise love. He was being boring,” snorted Sherlock.  
"True, red is the colour of love...but you forget something Sherlock."  
"Hmm?"  
"It's also the colour of the little blinking light in every security camera in London."

Mrs Hudson looked up, as above her, Sherlock's curses and John's laughter filled the air.  
Betaread by Too_Fargone.

**Author's Note:**

> Awww. These two are so cute to write. First work in fandom so let me know your thoughts.


End file.
